“Where I am coming from, man, Alabama, they are all just down-to-earth good people. My family lived there the entire life. We have nine people in the family: grandfather, grandmother, my parents, and five kids. Three sons and two daughters. I am the youngest son. My grandmother was the first great school teacher in my little town. My father worked at the factory his entire life, providing for the family. My grandparents took care of my parents, and my parents took good care of my siblings. They all are becoming somebody, you know? We are all well-educated and well-behaved, and everybody has become somebody in their lives. Here in Philadelphia, everybody is different. People are coming here from around the States. And he, he is doing things like that, you know? Do you see what he’s doing? But, you know what, I don’t care what kind of rich mothafucka are you, but if you ain’t shit – I ain’t fucking with you, you know?”
“That’s right, man. I totally agree.” Said another black man from the back seat.

James was a black man, well-dressed, soft-spoken, and well mannered. He wore a suit with a vest, black-framed eyeglasses, and a hat. Nobody dresses like that on a Saturday night in Philadelphia. He and his friend got into my car, having a little chat about life and family and who is who. Seeing two black men from the country’s deep south on the East Coast was exciting and somewhat unusual. However, they both were well-mannered and spoke softly, and were very interested and involved in their conversation. I wasn’t involved as I tried not to be involved in anything, but I’ve always overheard other’s conversations intentionally or not. Most things didn’t matter to me or anybody, but it helped to pass the time, and it was always excellent material for the stories I wrote.

There were tons of these weird and exciting and just random stories I’ve heard, but only so few of them survived in my sleep-deprived and always over-tired head. I always try to pay attention to different and interesting people, especially if they came here from “God-knows-where.” I lived in Philly for the last fifteen years at the time, but I think I’ve spent my entire young adult life here, from my teens to my early thirties. I feel like a local even though I am an immigrant. However, for those newcomers and one-time visitors to Philadelphia, I am a local expert. I should know anything and everything. I am their fucking Google Maps, restaurant and bar guide, Yelp, city guide, mother and father for some, as well as somebody willing to listen to anything with no objections. My passengers asked me all kinds of questions, and they honestly believed anything I said, even if I was talking out of my ass. I do try, though, to give people my best response to my best knowledge. At the end of the day, I am a regular human being. I am trying to make it in this world of fuckery and inequality where you have to be a tough mothafucka if you want to survive. And I always wanted to survive.

The good thing about this job was that I got to meet all kinds of people from all walks of life and be part of their lives, even if it was just for a few minutes, while I was driving them around the block. Interestingly enough, the people you have in the car now you will never see in your life ever again. I have never picked up the same person twice, and even if I did, nobody would remember or recall that. For the most part, I just sit quietly in my front seat behind the wheel after I greet a passenger, and then I just drive listening to my music and the sounds of the City. On multiple occasions, passengers begin a conversation or start asking me questions. Usually, they all ask about the same shit over and over. Once they hear my accent, they ask the same annoying fucking questions again over and over: “Where are you from originally?” “How long have you been here?” “Do you like it here?” “How do you like Uber?” “Do you know any good places to eat in the city?” “What would you recommend to do in the city?” Little do they know that I have no other business or any inside knowledge besides driving in the City. I never go to any restaurants, or bars, any other entertainment establishments for that matter. All I really do is driving around, picking and dropping people off, and watching people walking on the streets, watching the City living its life, and by the end of the day, I go back to where I belong, the North East Philly and my wife.

I don’t mind people ranting and asking dumb questions. I do indeed appreciate the curiosity and an attempt to keep up the conversation going. I don’t like to talk to strangers, but sometimes I have no choice. Randomly, I find myself talking to the weirdest, or I should say “unlikely-to-talk-to” people, and the conversations are really great. Often, I feel like, damn, this ride was too short; I really wanted to talk to this person more. But in most cases, I would just greet people, ask them about how they are doing, and drive on shutting myself the fuck up. The Uber app guides me around, the radio plays some music, and I just follow the navigation, regardless of how shitty it is. The mission is to get a person to the destination safe and happy. And that’s what I do. I safely transport people from point A to point B and smile, thanking them for their ride and business.

This wasn’t what I wanted to do, but I didn’t have too many choices. All my job interviews were very sporadic and with no success. Even when it felt like I would get to another round, I’ve never heard back from a recruiter or HR person. This might sound like nothing, but it really dawns on you mentally and spiritually and makes you feel like the world doesn’t need you anymore; you are a worthless piece of shit, and you can just go fuck yourself. After a handful of these unsuccessful interviews, I felt like, fuck it all. I’ll just drive. I can still pay for my shit and move in my life day by day. The future will show what else is there for me, but and in the meantime, nothing but Uber is available.

There was another request a block away. I’ve changed my music and started another trip. Carolyn needed a ride to the Old City’s bar with her girlfriend, and I was there for them. I gave them a ride, and they thanked me. I’ve heard so many “Thank you’s” during the day that I don’t even pay any attention to those overused mechanical words. Certain people out there would just exit the car shutting the door without saying anything. Then in my head, I go, “Where is my fucking Thank you, asshole?!” Did I do something wrong? Did I ruin your day? I never saw you before, and more than likely, I will never see you ever again in my life, and that is that no exchange of words or pleasantries, just the transaction. What did I really care about as long as I made my required daily trips and made my quota?

There are moments or rather specific patterns during the workdays where you can see clearly that the requests are down to almost nothing, some sort of a die-down. It almost feels like the City has paused for a moment to take another breath, to recharge before the busy night’s adventures. I do feel these no-requests-moments happening at a specific time during certain days. It was a Saturday, the busiest day to drive for Uber. Everybody needs a lift on Saturday, whether you are going home from work, visiting a friend, seeing your boyfriend or girlfriend, going out with your buddies for a drink, or taking your fucking dirty laundry to and from the laundromat. And then, you don’t hear any new requests coming in for one minute, two, three, five, twenty minutes, sometimes an hour. What should I be doing?
On the one hand, I am not making any money. On the other hand, I like these down moments to just be with myself. I drive around, play the music super loud and open the windows to get some fresh air and freedom inside. I pull over to the curb and smoke a cigarette to relax, think and recharge. These are also moments to visit Wawa, go to the bathroom, maybe grab a sandwich and a coffee.

Then I turn my Uber app on again, click “Go Online,” and shortly after, I hear the painfully familiar sound of a new request coming in, and I hit the “Accept,” and there I go again for yet another adventure somewhere in the City. The City of Brotherly Love, my adapted second hometown. The City for the survival of the fittest, for the rich and the poor, for the strong and the weak, along with all those “down to Earth, good people.”